Swing for the Fences
by Little Buddha
Chapter 11
By the time October gave way to November, the campus had slipped into its late-autumn form – cold mornings, golden light, and the sound of dry leaves scraping along stone walkways like paper ghosts. The trees were half bare now, their branches black and spindly against the sky. Everyone walked around bundled up like fashionable snowmen, clutching mugs from the canteen like they were sacred relics.
And for once, I wasn't flailing to stay afloat. I was… okay.
I'd figured out my rhythm – finally. School was still intense, but I was holding my own. Even algebra, which had once filled me with existential dread, was starting to click thanks to Christian's patient (and occasionally sarcastic) tutoring sessions.
"Nick," he said one afternoon, watching me squint at an equation like it had personally insulted me, "you're not defusing a bomb. It's just quadratic factoring."
"It feels like defusing a bomb," I muttered. "Except if I get this wrong, I don't get vaporized – I just die of shame."
Christian snorted and ruffled my hair like I was some kind of lost puppy. "You'll live."
And I was. I really was.
Tennis practices had moved indoors, which meant no more freezing wind chill and no more birds dive-bombing the courts. Chinese Club was going strong. I was even sleeping better. And somehow, in the middle of all that, I'd managed to hold on to the people who mattered to me.
Things with Noah were better. He was trying. We weren't just sneaking off for hand-holding and making out anymore; we actually talked. Shared meals. Sent each other dumb memes from across the dining hall. He asked questions now. Checked in. He was more present in a way he hadn't been before. He must've taken some of what I said to heart. I was kind of hoping for a romantic date, but it hadn't happened yet. What can I say? I'm a sucker for romance.
Still, I'd learned my lesson about pouring all my energy (and trust) into one person.
So, I made time for Jack. And Emery. And Mark.
Emery and I had started hanging out alone more often, especially in the library. Our Mandarin class was brutal, and somehow our suffering bonded us like war buddies. But we also talked. About books. About life. About the weirdness of being young and queer and very, very confused. How the boys at Harrison West were like an endless buffet of eye candy, but for Emery, at least, he'd never found that perfect (or even near-perfect) guy. Like me, his #1 focus was on school (he received an incredible amount of pressure from his parents), but also like me, he hoped to experience love in his life while he was still a teenager, so he could share in those wild, passionate, hormonal teenage experiences that either open up your heart … or shatter it. But we both agreed that you learn a lot from your mistakes, too.
One afternoon, we were curled up in the corner of the library with hot apple cider and a pile of books between us.
"Why do all these gay YA novels read like they were written by golden retrievers?" Emery said, flipping through one with a disgusted huff. "Everyone is sparkly and earnest and constantly declaring their feelings in flowery speeches. Kids don't talk like that."
I snorted. "You mean, unlike real life, where it's mostly awkward silences and internal screaming?"
"Exactly," he said. "Where's that representation?"
I pointed at my own face. "Hi. It's me."
Emery smirked. "I swear, if I read one more line like 'he kissed me like he was swallowing my sadness,' I'm going to set this book on fire."
"That's a crime against the library, and you'd be hunted."
"I'd go down in flames with purpose. "
I grinned. "I don't know. Sometimes it's nice to pretend the world can be that soft. I guess that's why I like Heartstopper so much, and even The Young Royals ."
Emery looked at me for a long moment. "You're a dreamer, Nick, I love that about you."
All I could do was blush after that.
He was quiet after that, and I liked that about him. He didn't need to fill the empty space. He let things breathe.
And then there was Mr. G.
I didn't realize how much I needed someone like him until I had him. He was steady. Comforting. Funny in a dad-joke kind of way. He kept me grounded, in a way that reminded me of home, without making me feel like a little kid.
Sometimes he'd check in on me in the evenings and just sit down across from me like we were equals.
"You're looking less haunted lately," he said one night while sipping tea from a chipped Star Wars mug.
"I'm just getting better at hiding it."
He gave me a knowing grin. "You're doing great, Kincaid. Don't forget to give yourself a little credit. I remember you on your first day here. You were shy as can be, didn't know anyone, and were just praying no one would notice you. Now, you've got a group of friends, a boyfriend – or so I hear – and you've been killing it in all your school reports. Here at Harrison West, we talk about turning boys into young men. You're the perfect example of that, and that's something no one can take away from you."
That stuck with me. More than I expected it to.
That night, after prep, I stayed in our room instead of slipping off to Noah's. Jack was sprawled across his bed in his usual position – shirtless, of course – sketchbook resting on his chest and earbuds in. One foot bobbed to the beat of whatever obscure, melancholic band he was obsessed with this week.
I tossed my bookbag down and flopped onto my bed with a dramatic sigh.
Jack pulled out one earbud. "What? Noah cancel on you?"
"No," I said. "Just wanted to hang out with someone less emotionally unstable for once."
He grinned. "So, you came to me ?"
"Low bar."
I rolled onto my side and watched him sketch for a moment. "You drawing something creepy again?"
He shrugged. "Maybe."
"You ever draw me?"
He didn't answer. He just glared at me and turned back to his sketchbook.
"Jack."
He flipped the sketchbook closed. "Drop it."
I grinned. "You have ."
"Maybe."
I let it sit for a moment, then said, "You know you love me."
Jack froze.
Then, so quietly I almost didn't catch it, he said, "I do."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward – not exactly. But it was thick with something.
Weighty. Fragile.
He didn't say anything else after that.
And neither did I.
But as I stared up at the ceiling, heart thudding in my chest, I couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he said it this time, full of sincerity and his personal truth laid bare. Like the way it slipped out before he had time to stuff it back in.
It wasn't like he hadn't said he loved me before, but something about this time felt different.
But I knew one thing for sure.
It mattered.
And I loved him, too. Maybe more than I realized I did.
It started at breakfast.
Noah and I were sitting in the dining hall, a tray between us piled with the usual chaos – my toast, his berries, my eggs, his weird little flaxseed protein square that looked like something that fell out of a squirrel's nest. The kind of comfortable silence that existed only between people who'd already memorized each other's rhythms.
Until Christian appeared.
He had a tray in hand and that sort of hopeful, slightly sheepish look on his face that made my stomach do something inconvenient. Not in a romantic way – okay, maybe a tiny flutter – but more like the feeling you get when someone unexpectedly important asks if they can sit with you. After all, Christian was like one of our Harrison West sports heroes.
"Hey, Nick. Got a sec?"
Noah looked up but said nothing. I stood, trying to act casual.
Christian pulled me aside near the drink machines, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. His voice was quieter than usual. "So… I'm starting tonight."
"Quarterback?" I asked.
He nodded, eyes a little wide. "Yeah. J.D.'s out. 'Hamstring injury' is the official story. But apparently someone walked in on him at the urgent care clinic getting treated for something… else. "
I blinked. "Wait—like…?"
Christian gave a half-smile, half-grimace. "Let's just say he might've fumbled more than the ball last weekend. Something involving some girl – or guy, who knows – from Westwater and possibly antibiotics."
I snorted. "Jesus."
He laughed under his breath. "Anyway, big game. I'm freaking out."
Then he looked at me – just me – and said, "Would you come?"
There wasn't anything overtly flirtatious in his voice, but it still made my stomach twist. Not desire exactly – just that strange, flickering pride you feel when someone chooses you without really explaining why. Like you were the one thing they needed. And it felt good.
For some reason, that day on the couch in the common room, Christian – one of the most popular and handsome boys in the whole school – picked me to be his Lions football watching buddy. Me . Then we started having longer and longer conversations, until he offered to tutor me in Algebra, and our "friendship" just kind of grew organically from there. He even introduced me to his weird little brother. Someone like me would normally never be in proximity to someone like Christian Donahue, but here we were. Was it a crush? Was it hero worship? Whatever it was, I certainly liked him , and for some reason, he seemed to like me . It reminded me how lucky I was to have found such good friends, despite how neurotic some of them could be (besides Christian, of course). He was the most stable one of us.
"Of course, I'll be there," I said emphatically
His face lit up. "Awesome. Bring someone if you want. Or don't. Either way – I'll look for you."
He touched my arm, just briefly, then walked off. I watched him go for half a second too long.
Back at the table, Noah was dissecting his toast with surgical intensity.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Peachy."
I sat down and picked at my food. The silence between us didn't feel quite as companionable as it had before.
Back in our room, Jack was flopped across his bed like a sad plant, one sock on, earbuds tangled, and a copy of Slaughterhouse-Five face-down on his chest.
"I need you to come to the football game with me tonight," I announced.
"No."
"Christian invited me."
"Tell Christian I said no."
"I told him I'd be there."
"Great. Go."
"I don't want to go alone."
"Take your boyfriend ."
I hesitated.
"I want to take you ."
Jack turned his head. "Why?"
"Because you'll be sarcastic and weird and loud and roll your eyes at everything, and that will make it bearable."
He still didn't move. So, I went for the kill.
"Also… you love me."
A groan. "Low blow. That's emotional terrorism."
"It's not not effective."
"Tell me you love me, too, and I'll consider it."
That was easy enough. "I love you, too, Jack."
He sat up slowly like he was being resurrected against his will. "Fine. But I'm not wearing school colors. And if someone tries to paint a letter on my face, I'm committing a felony."
"Noted."
By the time we reached the stadium, it felt like the entire school had condensed into one pulsing, shrieking organism. The bleachers were packed, music was blasting, the air smelled like popcorn, body spray, and high-stakes testosterone. It was chaos.
"This is horrifying," Jack said. "There are too many teeth and not enough exits."
"Welcome to pep culture," I said.
Up front, perched like some pint-sized monarch at the edge of the railing, was Jonah Donahue. Blond curls wild, hoodie bunched up around his knees, eyes alight with mischief. He held a bag of sour gummies like contraband.
I'd only met him briefly a few times, but he was hard to forget. Like the time he sat on my lap, made me snuggle him, and then kissed my cheek. Basically, he was a high-functioning chaos goblin in Vans.
"Well, well ," Jonah said when he spotted us. "Nick and his backup dancer."
"This is Jack," I said. "Jack, this is Jonah. Christian's little brother."
Jonah looked Jack up and down like he was undressing him with his eyes. "You're taller than I imagined. Sharp cheekbones. Homicidal vibe. I like it."
Jack blinked. "I'm… scared."
"You'll be fine. I'm thirteen and adorable. You legally can't hit me."
"Don't test me."
Jonah offered him a gummy worm. Jack took it with great suspicion.
Jonah turned to me. "You're looking very date-night tonight. This a love triangle situation?"
"I will throw you off the bleachers."
"Noted. But I'd land gracefully like a cat."
The announcer's voice crackled across the speakers as the players took the field. The crowd went nuclear when Christian's name was called. He jogged out last – helmet in hand, eyes scanning the stands. He was wearing #17.
He saw me.
And smiled.
And waved.
It was brief, casual, barely a flicker. But I felt it like a spark.
"He looked at you," Jonah whispered. "That was a meaningful glance ."
"He was looking at the band."
"He looked at you like you're the last granola bar in the vending machine and he only has one dollar."
Jack leaned over. "Is he always like this?"
"Worse," I said.
"I contain multitudes," Jonah offered, unapologetically.
The first quarter was brutal. Westwater's defense hit like they were trying to impress someone's dad. Christian got sacked early, and I flinched like it happened to me.
But he got up. Every time. And when he did – he came back sharper.
By the second quarter, he was electric. Clean snaps and hand-offs, rolling out clean, ducking hits like he was born in motion. He looked focused. Strong. Intense.
And I couldn't help but feel proud. Not in a romantic way. Just... proud . He was my friend, kind of like the big brother I never had.
But it didn't explain the weird warmth in my chest when he made a perfect pass and then glanced up toward our section like he was checking that I saw it.
"Your boy's got moves," Jack said. "Surprisingly."
"He's not my – never mind ."
"Too late. I've decided."
Jonah turned toward Jack. "You should come to more games. Your voice is very soothing. Like an NPR host with a switchblade."
Jack blinked. "Did you just hit on me again?"
"Obviously."
"You're thirteen."
"Chronologically. Spiritually, I'm in my twenties."
By the fourth quarter, it was tied. One play left. Everyone was on their feet.
Christian stood behind the line, called the play, looked out over the defense, and snapped the ball.
Dodged one tackle.
Spun out of another.
Launched it.
The ball soared – high and perfect – and landed in the arms of his receiver in the back of the end zone.
Touchdown!!!
The stadium erupted .
Jonah climbed the railing. "THAT'S MY BROTHER! SOMEBODY GET ME A COOKIE! SOMEBODY GET HIM A MOVIE DEAL!"
Jack shouted, "GET DOWN, YOU RUGRAT!"
Jonah screamed, "RUGRATS HAVE RIGHTS!"
After the chaos died down, Christian jogged over to the fence, flushed and gleaming under the lights.
"You came," he said, breathless.
"I said I would."
His eyes flicked toward Jack and Jonah. "Looks like you brought backup."
"I brought disaster," I said.
Jonah gave a little wave. "You did good, QB. Nice spiral. Call me later."
Christian blinked. "What?"
"Not for you. For your friend."
Jack looked mildly alarmed.
Christian just laughed. "Thanks for being here, Nick."
He touched my shoulder. Just briefly. But firmly.
I smiled, a little too much, and hated that I did.
"Catch you later?"
"Definitely."
We then said our goodbyes to Jonah, who slapped Jack on the ass and winked, before screaming maniacally as he ran away down the pathway. Jack looked mortified.
Jack and I walked back across campus in the dark. The trees whispered around us. The adrenaline had faded, but my mind was still buzzing.
"He's likable," Jack said.
"Christian?"
"Yeah. Annoyingly."
"I know."
"And the Gremlin Prince was flirting with me."
"He flirts with everyone. But he also thinks your voice is hot … and apparently your ass too."
"I don't know. I've always thought I had kind of a flat ass," Jack said, twisting his neck around to try to get a good look … and failing.
"Trust me, you do," I winked at him.
"Here you go again … you're not supposed to be flirting with me, Nick. Remember our boundaries!" Jack mock scolded me.
Trying to change the subject, I asked him if he noticed that Jonah had a "freakishly small butt."
"It's like a marshmallow that's been vacuum-sealed."
"It's cute, though," I said. "Very spankable."
We both laughed.
Then, quieter: "You and Noah okay?" Jack asked.
"I guess so."
I paused.
"I want him. I know I want him. I'm just… trying to figure out where everyone else fits."
Jack didn't say anything. But I didn't expect him to. He hated Noah, but he mostly was able to keep that to himself, fortunately.
Later, I found Noah waiting under our tree. The air was colder now. Our shadows curled around the trunk.
I stepped toward him, slowly.
"I brought Jack to the game."
"I saw."
"I should've invited you."
"Yeah," he said. "Supposedly, I am your 'boyfriend' and all."
I stood there, heart pounding. "I just didn't think you might get along with the rest of my friends. Mark and Emery weren't there, so you would've been kind of bored."
He didn't answer.
So, I kissed him.
It wasn't sweet or soft. It was real – urgent, hungry, messy. My hands found his waist, then slid lower, gripping the round, perfect curve of his ass. His hands dug into my back.
I wanted him. All of him. Now.
But even as we kissed, even as I pressed into him like he was the only thing keeping me grounded, something inside me whispered:
You don't know where you're going yet.
Maybe it was one of the long-dead alumni of Harrison West warning me about something.
It was definitely creepy.
The cold had officially moved in, and with it, a quiet shift across campus. Thanksgiving break was only days away, and Harrison West had entered that liminal state between order and exodus. Homework had slowed. Teachers smiled more. Students moved in clusters of duffel bags and dorm-room snacks, buzzing with plans.
Noah was flying back to New York to spend the holiday with his family. Jack had mentioned, in a tone that tried too hard to sound indifferent, that he couldn't go home. Instead, Mr. G had invited him to spend the long weekend with his family in town. Jack hadn't accepted yet, telling Mr. G he'd think about it, but I could tell he didn't want to say yes. But it's not like he had any other options. The whole school shut down for Thanksgiving Break, so he had to go somewhere.
I was going home. Home to my mom. To the sound of her coffee machine that sputtered like it was clearing its throat. To her quick hugs and overcooked turkey, and the faint smell of antiseptic that clung to her scrubs no matter how often they were washed. And to Mr. Bojangles, whose presence alone could probably cure any kind of emotional distress.
And this time, I wanted Jack to come with me. I mean, where else was he going to go? It felt like a big deal, but it also felt like there was a chance that things could get very complicated, considering our confusing feelings for each other.
I asked my mom, and she didn't hesitate. "Bring him," she'd said. "I haven't met your mysterious roommate yet, but if he's putting up with you, he's earned mashed potatoes. I'm sure your grandparents would love to meet him as well."
UGH!!! I forgot about the old people. This could get really awkward, mostly for Jack.
That left just one obstacle: talking to Jack about it.
I got back to our room Monday night, face pink from the wind, still humming with leftover adrenaline from the latest too-hot, too-clothed, definitely-crossing-the-line rendezvous with Noah. Messing around with him was turning out to be really fun, and I could have spent hours just caressing his smooth butt and his rock-hard peen. Hey, I never said I was romantic all the time !
Things with Noah had changed. Kisses had turned to gropes. Holding hands had turned into grinding against the wall behind the student union, gasping into each other's mouths, hands exploring inside pants. Every night with him felt closer to the edge – like we were teetering on something even more intimate . Something I wanted. Something I wasn't confused about anymore. And that made me feel guilty, too, because I still spent an inordinate amount of time thinking of Jack.
But, as I said, I was still figuring out where everyone else fit in my life.
Including the person currently sitting cross-legged on the floor, locked in battle with Jack.
"Keebler elves absolutely have a union," Jonah was saying. "They have job-specific hats. You don't get little gold medallions on your hat without some kind of artisan rank."
Jack rolled his eyes. "They live in a hollow tree and bake cookies in the walls. There are OSHA violations all over that ecosystem."
"They're magical . Magic trumps OSHA."
"You're telling me a fudge factory in a birch tree wouldn't have at least one catastrophic fire every decade?"
"That's what the union is for , Jack."
They didn't even look up when I opened the door.
I cleared my throat loudly.
Jack jumped slightly. Jonah just grinned like he'd been expecting me.
"Heya, Kincaid," Jonah said. "I'm here liberating your roommate from his tragically narrow views on elf labor."
"He came to shake me down for Oreos," Jack said. "Then stayed to harass me about cookie law."
"I stayed because you're cute ," Jonah said matter-of-factly. "And since we're both single at the moment …"
Jack blinked. "I—what?"
Jonah shrugged. "Don't worry. I'll probably get bored with you eventually. But you've got that whole 'moody Victorian poet who doesn't believe in chairs' thing going on. It's working. You kinda make me hot."
Jack looked like he had no idea what was going on.
"Also," Jonah added, rising to his feet, "you need more snacks. And better lighting. Your dorm is depressing."
He grabbed his hoodie from the desk chair, winked at me, then turned toward the door. But not before delivering one final blow: a full-body, shameless butt shake in Jack's direction. It was a tiny butt – but somehow, it worked.
And then he was gone, sprinting down the hallway like the goblin king he was.
Silence.
"…What the hell," I said.
Jack was still staring at the door. "I think I blacked out."
"He called you cute."
"He also accused me of elf union-busting and tried to reorganize our snack shelf. I'm scared."
"He's not wrong about the snacks … or your being cute."
"I'm scared of you too ."
"You should ask him out," I suggested. "He's funny, he's cute, he obviously likes you."
"He's thirteen," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "And I'm already in love with someone else."
Really subtle, Jack.
I dropped my backpack and sat on my bed, heart thudding a little harder than usual. Now or never.
"Not to change the topic, Jack, but I need to ask you something serious."
Jack looked at me warily. "If this is about joining a fantasy football league, I'll scream."
"It's not."
He waited.
I rubbed my hands down my jeans, trying to find the right way to say it without sounding like a total dork.
"Do you want to come home with me? For Thanksgiving."
He blinked.
I pushed forward. "I asked my mom. She said yes immediately. She's excited, actually. She said she wants to meet the guy who leaves socks in the fridge."
"That happened once ."
"She thinks you're hilarious."
Jack looked down. "Why me?"
I hesitated. "Because I don't want you eating stuffing with someone else's family just because you have nowhere else to go. Because you shouldn't spend the holiday with people who aren't yours. Because you're my friend and I want to be with you. And you deserve the warmth of a family, and it just so happens that my family has some extra warmth and love saved up just for you."
My speech was damn good. I silently applauded myself.
He swallowed. "I don't want to make it weird or uncomfortable."
"It's not weird," I said quickly. "It's – me. Asking my roommate and best friend to come home with me. For turkey. That's not weird at all."
He was quiet. Then:
"You know you're insufferable, right?"
"Yes."
"And that you have this… ridiculous hold over people, especially me?"
"Working on it."
He sighed and leaned his head back against the bed frame.
"Fine," he said. "I'll come."
My heart flipped.
Then he added, quieter: "What about Noah?"
I sat back.
"I like Noah a lot," I said, because I did. "But he doesn't own me. I'm allowed to have my own friends."
Jack nodded slowly, like he was testing the weight of that idea.
There was something soft in his expression. Unspoken. A maybe.
"So," he said, with the faintest twitch of a smile, "it's a date."
I exhaled.
I smiled. "Yeah … it is a 'date.'"
He didn't say anything more. But he looked… happy. In that quiet, tentative, Jack sort of way.
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